Olde Tudor

by David Ralph Williams

With his final words, the breathing stopped. With his heart in his mouth, he lowered the bedsheet just enough for him to take a gulp of cool air. If he had light in his room he would have seen his exhaled breath hang before him, a frozen nebulous cloud of vapour, slowly dissipating away like a phantom searching for a dark place in which to hide itself.

  As he sat up in bed, still breathing hard, palpitations thumping against his festering chest cavity a new sound rang out. The sound was outside. Some distance from the house. He knew exactly the source and cause of the sound. It was the gate to the cavern slamming shut.

  ******

  It took Alistair some time to drag his shivering body out of bed. It was six in the morning. Like the previous day, he wrapped the woollen bed sheet around him and donned his slippers. He stood up slowly, then coughed up a sickening globule of sticky mucous. He saw it land on the floor beside his bed. He felt disgusted by his own malaise.

  The first thing he did was try the light switches to the bedroom. Still no power. He moved over to the window, he thought about checking the situation with the snow. Suddenly he remembered the fear he had gone through during the night. The laboured breathing outside. He withdrew his fingers from the curtains. He had no intention of looking at that ash tree just yet.

  Smokey was purring frantically at the sight of Alistair. There was a yellow puddle on the floor in the kitchen. Alistair realised that the poor animal had been shut in for the best part of a day whilst he was in bed. The cat hadn’t eaten either. “You poor thing,” he said in between bouts of coughing. “Let me fix you something to eat and drink.” He sacrificed the final kipper knowing he could not cook it and eat it himself. There was no milk left. He tried the tap at the sink. It was still frozen. Then he had an idea.

  Opening the back door, he packed some snow into a jug then set it down by the sink. He thirstily ate some snow himself, the cooling effect of the snow eased his throat slightly. He looked at the jug of snow. He realised it could take some time to thaw into water that he could use for himself or Smokey. He then opened the back door to let the cat out. Smokey left the house hesitantly due to the deep crisp snow outside. Closing the door Alistair shivered then coughed some more. He then went to get dressed. Wearing his warmest clothing, and wrapped in a blanket he ventured outside.

  The whiteness of the snow was blinding. He walked through the garden and all the way over to the cave. The snow had formed sporadic drifts in the most inappropriate places. One had blocked access to the workshop door. Another had half climbed to the top of the monolith. Alistair slowly approached the cave.

  The gate was shut and he was horrified to see a trail leading out from the cave and continuing to the house. The track consisted of deep pits. Not an animal’s he thought. They were set out in a human like gait. The sight of those tracks validated his experiences. Something was in the cave. It had crawled, no. Walked out. It had walked in bold strides towards his house. He surmised that it had climbed the ash tree where its haunting breathing had plagued him.

  With his eyes, he followed the trail past the gate and into the cave. He hated the idea of venturing back into that bleak grotto. He did need those matches. He opened the gate. Smokey joined him at the mouth of the cave. He was glad of the company.

  The first few steps were not so bad as the growing daylight filtered through illuminating his course. Smokey ran on ahead. He tried to call to him but his voice fuelled more coughing that stopped him in his tracks and doubled him up. His chest was feeling very sore and the deep coughing had caused his back and sides to ache. Once the fit was over he straightened and carried on.

  He had to use his hands to feel the rest of the way. He tripped on many stalagmites and concluded that he must be in the main chamber. If he remembered correctly, the rock graves were directly in front of him just forward of the back wall of the cavern. His feet eventually found them. He got to his hands and knees and searched about the floor.

  He couldn’t see anything but solid blackness. He imagined that he could actually feel the darkness with his fingertips. His left hand sensed something. It felt like cardboard. Delighted he snatched up the object then discarded it when he realised what it was. It was a piece of one of those old shredded cardboard boxes. One that was used to house Redgrave’s collection of labelled bones. He continued to search frantically. He didn’t want to be in this cold dark place any longer than he had to be. And then it happened. The thing he had been dreading the most.

  He tried to run but tripped on a stalagmite. He stood up again, although he couldn’t see it, he knew his hand had been injured. The breathing seemed to be coming from all around him. He had no strength to run. The best he could muster was a feeble jog as he felt the walls with his trembling hands like a blind man feels his way around an unfamiliar place. His blanket snagged on a stalagmite, stealing it away from his shoulders. He kept on following the rock wall, he knew eventually he would turn the corner and then he would see the light.

  The morning light spilled down the last few yards of the passage. Alistair continued his trot, dragging his leg from fever induced fatigue. His breath was visible to him as he passed through it in his last desperate attempt to get out the cave.

  He leaned on the gate whilst he caught his breath. Even the fear of whatever horror was lurking in the hole behind him was not enough to give him the power to move right now. He stood erect when he heard the shrill cry of a wounded animal. “Smokey!” he called into the gaping maw. He cupped his hands around his lips, “Smokey, Smoke . . .” his cries turned to coughs. He knew if that was Smokey crying out, then what had happened to him, in the cave, had sounded bad, final. He knew Smokey wasn’t coming back.

  Perched atop a stool in the kitchen, Alistair felt disparaged. Not only had he lost his blanket and hadn’t been able to locate the matches, he had lost his only form of companionship. Determined to help himself, he decided to try to get back up to town. If he had the strength to do this, then he might be able to find a doctor who could prescribe him something to help with his malady.

  Back outside, Alistair had used a fallen branch from the Ash tree as a walking stick. It gave him something to lean on at least. He slowly trudged through the deep snow. The shoes he wore were hardly suitable for the weather, they provided little insulation from the snow. He reached the garden gate and pushed it open. Stepping carefully onto the snow-covered verge he scanned the road that climbed up to the town.

  The town was out of sight but he knew it was about a mile or so upwards. The road and surrounding fields were covered by an undisturbed dazzling coat of snow that he thought resembled whipped cream. He chuckled to himself at the thought but stopped laughing when his brief jollity turned to more fits of hacking coughing. Once he had re-composed himself, he made his first tentative steps onto the slippery road.

  The lane was icy, and covered with snow. His feet were slipping with each and every footfall. His shoes had hardly any grip and his toes were already numbing. After a few steps, he heard a flapping sound. He glanced upwards to see the familiar plumage of a large black bird perch on a nearby sycamore. The snow fell from the branches as the creature hopped sideways. He wondered if it was the same bird that had once attacked him in the garden. Keeping one eye on the raven he used his stick for support as he continued his ascent.

  The first time he fell he hit the ground hard, landing on his right hip. He slid down almost to the gate of his garden. Slowly he stood and brushed away the snow from his coat. “Damned infernal season!” he cursed. More determined than ever he started again.

  This time each step produced pain in his hip. His body was already aching from his sickness. Every rib, intercostal muscle, bone, and joint hurt. Every breath threatened another round of painful coughing. The branch, not being a correct walking stick, also began to slip and slide whenever he placed his weight on it. He fell again, landing on the same bruised hip bone. This time he let out a cry of pain.

  He sat in the snow and rubbed at his hip and leg. It was so quiet in the
lane. As he sat there he wondered why it always seemed quiet after a heavy snowfall. Generally, there are not all that many winter people outside, they were probably all sitting beside fires all warm and snug inside their homes. He thought about one of his colleagues at the school, Peter Davenport. Davenport taught science. They had once had a conversation regarding the peacefulness following a wintery covering at the school. Davenport had theorised that the quietness was caused by the ability of the snow to absorb soundwaves. He had said something about snowflakes stacking up, leaving lots of air spaces between. It seemed a good enough answer he thought as he once again heaved himself to his feet.

  Realising that he wasn’t making much progress and also noticing the weak winter sun sitting low in the sky, he thought he’d best get going again as soon, dusk would fall. He didn’t want to face another dark bitterly cold night.

  As he made his way slowly up the lane, he noticed the raven had begun following him, flying from tree to tree, hopping from branch to branch. The action of the bird perturbed him. He found himself no longer concentrating on keeping his balance on the ice beneath his feet. Instead, he was keeping a close eye on the raven.

  The raven’s first dive took him by complete surprise. The bird swooped down and clawed at his shoulder with its talons before soaring aloft and perching safely on a high branch of another sycamore. Alistair managed to keep upright this time. But only just. He carried on trudging up the slope. He glanced back and could still see Olde Tudor. He had barely made any progress. He tried to quicken his step but this caused him to cough. To prevent too much pain from his aching sides he bent low whilst he coughed. He didn’t see the raven before it attacked again.

  This time the bird struck the side of Alistair’s cheek. It drew a sharp scratch. Alistair stopped coughing and wiped at his face. His fingers were wet with his own blood. He turned and saw the raven returning to its temporary roost, springing along a high branch. The bird seemed almost in joy. Its harsh, grating, cawing was not unlike a mirthful cackle.

  Alistair gripped his stick in preparation for the next attack. It came quickly. He watched as the bird swooped low, its long pointed black beak thrust forwards like a jousting pole. As the raven came close Alistair stepped to the side, and used the stick as a weapon attempting to strike the raven. He missed the bird completely.

  The raven altered the course of its flight and soared upwards, then it came for him again. Alistair held the stick out front. Before he could wield the weapon, his feet slipped from under him. Landing on his buttocks heavily, he dropped the stick as he slid all the way down the lane only coming to rest at his own garden wall.

  Alistair slowly got to his feet using the wall as support. He was cold, wet, and shivering and feeling extremely disheartened. He had failed to make it to town. He was injured. Still sick, he faced another dark and miserable night at the house. Just to destroy any thoughts of a further attempt to get to town, the raven swooped past him and landed on the old ash tree in his garden. Even if he had managed to strike the bird with his stick giving it a terminal injury, he felt that his energy resources were now reaching a critical state. He barely had enough strength to walk from the wall to the house, but he found it somehow.

  In the pantry were a few tins that contained soup, beans, and fruit. He picked up the tin of beans, and took a fork, and a tin opener out of a cutlery drawer. He sat his weak frame down on a chair next to a dead fire grate. He struggled to open the tin, his wrist was aching as were all his joints. After a few attempts, he finally managed to remove most of the lid.

  He ate some of the beans straight from the tin using a fork. His illness had numbed his taste buds. He ate half of the cold meal before another round of coughing forced him to stop. He stared longingly at the ashes in the fire grate. He wished that he could stretch out his hand and feel the warmth from a cheerful fire. Then he had an idea.

  It seemed preposterous to Alistair, that he had not thought of it sooner. Wrapping himself in as many warm clothes as he could find he left the house and stepped once more into the cold effulgent brightness outside. He made his way over to the workshop. Once he reached the workshop he used his right leg to kick away the snow drift that was hugging the door and wall. He then unlocked the door using the key, and never for a moment taking his eyes away from the raven that was still perched in the ash tree.

  Once inside the workshop he closed the door. It was gloomy inside. The night was sliding in fast. He made his way over to the workbench, the flint tools were still arranged as he had left them. He gathered a few and placed them back into the box lined with straw before leaving the workshop.

  He stuffed the pockets of his coat with kindling wood and a few larger pieces. He still had enough wood back at the house. He was going to use the flint pieces to try to light a fire. As he turned to leave the wood store he heard the crash of a gate. The noise almost made him drop the box of flints he was carrying.

  He studied the gate to the cave, it was closed. But the noise had indicated that something had opened it and closed it noisily. Maybe it was the wind, he thought trying to deceive himself. He began to trudge back through the deep snow to the house. When he got to the door he stopped. It was slightly ajar. He was sure he had closed it behind him. He studied the snow on the ground. There were a few tracks all mingled together. It was difficult to say if there were any prints other than his own. Tentatively, he stepped inside the house and closed the door.

  5

  Alistair tipped all the dry straw from the box into the fire grate. He arranged the straw into the shape of a bird’s nest inside the grate. He had built similar fires whilst teaching at the boy’s school during camping excursions. He then fetched a sharp knife from the kitchen and began to scrape the knife along one edge of a flint tool he had selected. The scraping had produced a small pile of flint shavings that he kept towards the middle of the straw nest. Turning the flint over he began to scrape down the other side using the knife producing sparks. The sparks began to hit the shavings and suddenly the straw caught fire.

  Quickly and carefully, he began to place the smallest pieces of kindling wood onto the burning straw. As the small twigs caught fire, he added slightly larger sticks and continued to build the fire until the whole grate was ablaze. Happy with his handiwork he knelt to feel the warmth on his face. The first warmth he had felt in days.

  He lit many candles before taking one of them into the kitchen. He used the candle to start a fire in the wood stove. Once the stove was hot he took a saucepan and into it he emptied the remaining beans from the tin he had eaten from earlier. Then he filled a kettle from the jug that contained the snow melt and put some tea leaves in a pot. His mood began to perk up. He was feeling warm, and soon he would have some hot food. He almost drooled at the prospect, even though his meal would only comprise of two thirds a can of baked beans.

  He sat next to the fire for a good hour following his supper and pot of tea. His face glowed from the heat the burning wood threw out at him. Even though the feeling was almost uncomfortable, he remained where he sat, soaking up the warmth.

  Outside he could hear the wind beginning to whip up again. There was also the sound of tiny crystals of ice pattering against the curtain covered windows. It had started to snow again. Another sound however, made his blood run into icy creeps. From somewhere, and he was unable to discern exactly the whereabouts, he could hear that odious breathing again. Only this time the snorts and gasps didn’t emanate from outside. They came from inside the house.

  Weakly, he rose from his seat and scanned the room. There was nothing to be seen. His heart began to race. He remembered the door being slightly ajar on his return from the woodstore. Now he was faced with the real prospect that the horror from the cave, whatever it might be, could be inside the house with him.

  He grabbed the poker from out of the fire. The pointed hammered end was glowing a vermillion orange. He picked up a lighted candle stick and slowly searched around the house. The kitchen was quiet, other than
the crackling burning wood from within the stove. He made his way to the bottom of the stairs. “Hello. . .” he called before some violent coughing almost made him drop the candlestick. Recomposed, he called out again. This time he heard a muffled dragging sound from above his head. The poker was still hot and he bravely climbed the wooden steps to the landing.

  The bathroom’s peace was only disturbed by a dripping tap. He screwed the tap shut tight. The dripping ceased. Holding the candle in a shaky hand he made his way over to the master bedroom. Inside he was faced with a gut-wrenching sight. Smokey, his adopted feline companion was laid out at the end of his bed. He had been meticulously skinned, and fortunately, was quite dead. He wretched at the gory sight.

  Before Alistair could react further to the display in his room the breathing came again. He turned to see a shadow out on the landing. It appeared to be cast from something descending the wooden stairs. But there was no sound of footfalls on the steps. Too scared to move he just stood watching until the last trace of a shadow had disappeared.

  Still rooted to the spot he heard the sound of the back-door open but not close. He raced over to the bedroom window and parted the curtains. It was so dark outside he could only see his own terrified reflection on each of the leaded panes, illuminated by the candle he carried. He left the bedroom and went downstairs.

  The door was blowing on its hinges, snow was drifting in and settling on the kitchen floor. For a moment, in his fear and his sickness he just stood and watched as the wind played with the door. Awakening from his catatonic state he pushed the door shut and slid the bolt across just in time to hear the clash of the cavern gate outside. It had returned home, he thought. Whatever had been in his house had gone back to the cave. The uninvited was gone. For now.

  A fire now blazed in the grate of his bedroom. The room itself was illuminated by many candles. Smokey had been wrapped up in a blanket and placed onto the windowsill. He decided that he would take him to the woodstore in the morning and leave him there. Eventually he would dig him a grave, when he had sufficiently recovered from his illness. He went down into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.